Living
Title: Living
Author: rslhilson
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A ghost-y take on how Wilson survived chemo-on-the-couch.
Spoilers: 8x19, "The C Word"
Pairings: House/Wilson friendship/slash depending on your goggles; Wilson/Amber canon
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
Author's Note: Double drabble written for the Sick!Wilson Halloween Challenge.
* * * * *
She’s there the whole time.
She doesn’t say a word. Neither does Wilson, because House has enough to handle without adding hallucinations or ghosts or whatever the hell she is to Wilson’s list of symptoms. Sometimes she stands alone, waiting; other times he can actually feel her smoothing back his hair, and as he empties his stomach into House’s garbage pail he can’t even begin to imagine how high his fever must be.
Once, he sees House glancing her way, as if there’s really something there.
“You okay, House?”
“Better than you,” House snorts, and they leave it well alone.
.
.
.
He’s supposed to be dead, like her.
Life should have ended with House’s promise. But like House, she stays by his side, coaxing air into his lungs through the night. House bears the unfamiliar look of uncertainty, the aftermath of saying you can’t win this before realizing that it’s actually, slowly, being won.
She leaves with a kiss on his cheek and a whisper of, “He’s not ready yet.” And it takes Wilson a moment to realize that, no, she isn’t talking about himself.
House shudders as Amber drifts away. “Jesus. Did you feel that?”
“Yeah,” Wilson smiles. “I did.”
* * * * *
Fin
Author: rslhilson
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A ghost-y take on how Wilson survived chemo-on-the-couch.
Spoilers: 8x19, "The C Word"
Pairings: House/Wilson friendship/slash depending on your goggles; Wilson/Amber canon
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
Author's Note: Double drabble written for the Sick!Wilson Halloween Challenge.
* * * * *
She’s there the whole time.
She doesn’t say a word. Neither does Wilson, because House has enough to handle without adding hallucinations or ghosts or whatever the hell she is to Wilson’s list of symptoms. Sometimes she stands alone, waiting; other times he can actually feel her smoothing back his hair, and as he empties his stomach into House’s garbage pail he can’t even begin to imagine how high his fever must be.
Once, he sees House glancing her way, as if there’s really something there.
“You okay, House?”
“Better than you,” House snorts, and they leave it well alone.
.
.
.
He’s supposed to be dead, like her.
Life should have ended with House’s promise. But like House, she stays by his side, coaxing air into his lungs through the night. House bears the unfamiliar look of uncertainty, the aftermath of saying you can’t win this before realizing that it’s actually, slowly, being won.
She leaves with a kiss on his cheek and a whisper of, “He’s not ready yet.” And it takes Wilson a moment to realize that, no, she isn’t talking about himself.
House shudders as Amber drifts away. “Jesus. Did you feel that?”
“Yeah,” Wilson smiles. “I did.”
* * * * *
Fin